The Wasabi Farmer

The farmer’s only companion is a nuthatch. Its warble is mournful in the early morning, conjuring an indolent mist that is slow in its descent along the mountainside. Soil cakes the farmer’s forearms and clings to the frayed edges of his shirt. A bundle of wasabi rests on the yellowed blanket beside him, plucked from soft earth after nearly two years of maturation. They do not look like newborns, wet dirt obscuring their rough, patchy green skins. They look as old as the farmer feels. Today is different, although he does not know why. He continues his work.

The wasabida, the patch, is nearly clear. It is the only one that needs harvesting, but there is more work to be done afterward. The wasabi leaves need to be cut and the stems placed in water until they are taken to the village. The channels must be cleared or excess water will choke the plants. It is vital the nets are mended to keep wild animals at bay. One of the stone walls by the terrace is in need of repair, and rocky soil loosened and tilled so that future patches will be ready for seedlings. 

At first, nature was tentative to reclaim the land. The farmer often wonders when it became so voracious, wanting more and more until each year the patches grow smaller as new plant life entwines itself with land he cultivates. Sediment continues to clog the pipes which bring fresh water from the stream to the wasabi, and it takes him longer each time to clear them. It is work that once fed him, but now he feels lessened. He looks at his hands and wonders if they are the same hands that helped his father carve out a place in this land, hands that once held a family. They are strange to him.

A quick lunch breaks up the farmer’s day. He goes to the only swatch of sunlight, a bright orb that appears each day beside his home. The mackerel is salty and its oil saturates the rice. He takes one of the harvested wasabi stems and peels it with his knife, watching as a piece curls into a perfect green ribbon. He grates it, the green flakes coating the humble meal. When the fish touches his mouth his tongue flares for a moment, but the heat dissipates quickly and an underlying sweetness is revealed. When the meal is complete, the farmer lingers in the sun. He basks in the center of the warm sphere, his long shadow reaching out like the hand of a clock. His hands smell of fresh wasabi, pungent and spicy. He carries the scent with him. It lingers in his hair and clothing, wakes him in the middle of the night. 

While the farmer rests, the nuthatch investigates the remnants of the meal. The bird lands on a smooth slab of stone covered with small gifts and a handful of wilting chrysanthemums. Inside are the remains of his wife, the ashes of his daughter. The nuthatch finds a grain of rice and retreats to the safety of the trees. The farmer watches. 

It is afternoon when he begins to plant the seedlings. One by one they are placed in moist earth, drinking in the water the stream provides. He uses skilled hands, ensuring they are nestled in the earth’s belly and know this is where they belong. They are eager to take root, but it takes time. An hour passes. The rows multiple, perfect lines forming through his labor. Wasabi flourishes in the mountain’s coolness, soaking in frigid waters, shy of the sun and its searing gaze. The mountain sustains them, but the farmer protects them. He sighs, wiping beads of sweat from his wrinkled brow. It is cool, but the work tires him. Burdens him. Burden. It is a word orbiting his mind, a feeling waiting to be acknowledged. Just as nature cradles the farm, slow in its reclamation. Perhaps he should not fight it. He is a flesh automaton, tilling land and tending graves. There is little light there now. 

The farmer leans close to the earth and brushes it like a willow. His troubled mind seeks answers. Silence falls with him. The trickle of the nearby stream dissipates and his companion withholds its birdsong, patient. It was not so hard the previous summer, the farmer thinks. His eyes close, but his mind opens. He can see his wife’s silhouette, hear the rustle of her straw hat as she works the land. It is a simple memory, a small whisper from his life, but he sinks into the moment.

His wife had handed him another seedling. The farmer lost count and he knew they were still early in their work. She will not be able to help for much longer, the farmer thought. Rest is what she needed. Her small hands curved inward like cups and dark spots marked her skin, the color of aged parchment. When they were still, which was not often, they trembled and shrunk into tight fists. But when they moved, the grace that captivated him in their youth was on display. The seedlings would reach out to her with their leafy tendrils as she plucked them from her basket, and before they could protest she tucked them into the plant beds. Her hands persisted, but her face, scrunched in intense concentration, was unable to mask the pain. We should rest now, he told his wife. Her tight lips loosened and a playful smile eased her anguished features. She reached out to him and patted his wrist before handing him another seedling. Its leaves were the color of life and renewal. They looked like hope in her hands. It is still early, she said. We are not finished. We will rest when we are finished. 

The farmer inhales and the scent of soil funnels deep into his lungs. No, not a burden. All of the hands that have worked this land nourish it. Nourish him. He is not finished. Rising like the sun, he reaches for another stem. Sure hands help the seedling find its way. When it is secure he reaches for another. And then another. 

The nuthatch sings.